


the last one on the dance floor (as the chandelier gives way)

by ac0lyte



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: All of SBI hears the voices, But especially Wilbur this time around, Gen, I just started having a lot of thoughts about pogtopia wilbur lmao, Pogtopia Wilbur, Pre-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Water Rising Video is canon because I said so, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Alexis | Quackity, it says rpf but this is about the characters, not the ccs who portray them!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ac0lyte/pseuds/ac0lyte
Summary: “Stop, stop it, let me think,” Wilbur mumbled fruitlessly. The voices crescendoed until it was all Wilbur could hear, even louder than the beating of his own heart. They were yelling in unison now, a kind of sickening chant that made Wilbur want to bash his head in. Maybe that would stop it.If L’manburg was his unfinished symphony, this was the chorus, and every member of the choir sang BLOW IT UP .(Title from Swimming Pool by The Front Bottoms)
Relationships: Because that's weirdchamp, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	the last one on the dance floor (as the chandelier gives way)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope other people still think about Pogtopia Wilbur as much as I do LMFAO  
> This is based off the theory that the entire SBI family hears the chat as voices in their head like Technoblade, and Wilbur's chat was ALWAYS 'blow it up' pre-November 16.  
> TW for paranoia, the insanity arc?, thoughts of violence, mentions of alcohol, drugs, and smoking, basically anything that's par for the course with Wilbur's Pogtopia arc  
> Obvious reminder that this is about the DSMP characters and not the CCs themselves, it will be taken down immediately if it crosses any of their boundaries, and to please not spread it to CCs and whatnot. Thanks for reading!

Wilbur woke up the same way he had every day since his exile. With a jolt, a momentary elation where he still thought he was President of L’manburg, and then the crushing realization that he wasn’t anymore. No matter how many times he went through this routine, it never failed to make him angry. The fact that he was only getting a few hours of sleep at night certainly didn’t help, and Wilbur knew immediately that today was going to be one of his bad days.

The early morning sounds of Pogtopia rang out across the ravine. It was solely Technoblade today - everyone else was probably sleeping in. They deserved to, after Wilbur’s long, ranting speech last night about victory and triumph. Technoblade was humming a tune that bounced off the ravine walls, accompanied by his loud footfalls on the stone.

Wilbur reveled in the early morning silence, placing his hands in the pockets of his coat and closing his eyes. This was the only time in the day he got silence, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t enjoy it.

 _Technosong_.

Just like that, it was over.

The constant chatter that loved to fill Wilbur’s mind suddenly flooded in in full force, talking over each other, making inane comments. He groaned and opened his eyes, regretting not enjoying that silence just a little more.

As he left the small room he’d carved out for himself, he locked eyes with Technoblade. Techno, for his part, was a lot more open about the voices he heard. Blood was their calling, their destiny, their retribution. It started and ended there, as far as Wilbur knew.

 _TECHNO. Blood for the Blood God. Hi Wilbur! B L O O D_.

Wilbur’s voices were not very helpful.

“Morning, Techno,” Wilbur greeted him.

“Hello, Wilbur,” Techno returned. He held a sword in one hand, blood-stained and sharp as ever. It rested across his shoulder, and made Wilbur a little nervous. He knew he shouldn’t have anything to fear about his brother, however intimidating his skills were, but he couldn’t help it.

“I heard your speech went well last night,” Techno said, and Wilbur felt a lot more at ease. Okay. He really was just being paranoid. He always was, lately.

“It did. Manburg doesn’t stand a _chance_!”

“Mmm,” was all Techno offered, then continued on his way down the ravine, taking up the tune again. If Wilbur was a little more attentive, he would’ve recognized it as one of his own songs from years ago, when his family was his only audience. But that wasn’t what was on Wilbur’s mind as he started off in the opposite direction.

No, Wilbur was thinking about _Schlatt_. The name was like a poison in his mind. Even picturing the man’s face made him want to stab something, or let an arrow fly, or press a button.

The voices picked up on this excitedly. _BLOW IT UP. Killbur. BLOW IT UP. Schlatt’s the worst. Schlatt2020. murbur. BLOW IT UP. make him pay._

As much as he hated Schlatt, as much as he saw him out of the corner of his eye, or suspected his friends of being one of the man’s spies, or wished he could forget they had once been friends...despite all of that, Wilbur needed information. Information won wars, and they had a lot of war to win.

He knocked at the door of the room that, up until a week or so ago, had been used for storage. Honestly, it still was mostly storage. There was just a person there as well.

After a beat, the door swung open, and Quackity stood behind it, beaming with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wilbur!”

“Quackity.” Wilbur gestured inside, just beyond the door. “Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”

“Yeah, of course, man.” Quackity stood back, opening the door for Wilbur to come through. “What’s up?”

Wilbur took a seat on one of the many barrels of supplies, adjusting the beanie on his head. He didn’t usually meet with Quackity like this. They were more casual with each other. It was a weird change of pace, and Quackity noticed it too, his smile faltering as he took a seat across from Wilbur.

“I need you to tell me everything about Schlatt,” Wilbur said. “Everything. Everything he ever said, everything he did, everything he-”

The buzz of voices clamoring _BIG Q_ in his head distracted him for a moment, but he pressed on. “Just...everything.”

“Oh, God, okay, uh,” Quackity brushed a strand of hair out of his face, tucking it into his beanie. He made a face for a moment, deep in thought. “Okay. Schlatt’s an asshole, and he loves power more than anything else. He drinks, he smokes, he spent a ton of L’manburg Treasury dollars on workout equipment…” he trailed off, looking to Wilbur for help. “I don’t know. He’s a bitch.”

“What about him, specifically, makes him a bitch?” Wilbur pressed. Quackity wasn’t the best informant, and Wilbur still wasn’t even sure if he wasn’t simply a spy for Schlatt. But it was the best he had.

“I don’t know. He called me names. Said my ass wasn’t fat.” Quackity frowned. “My best asset, and he insulted it! I’m glad I shot him, you know. He deserved it.”

“Does he have any weaknesses?” Wilbur was quickly running out of patience. _Flatty patty_ , the voices said. He had no idea what that meant.

“Oh, tons. He’s actually pretty physically weak, uh, he doesn’t like water - he can’t swim, and gets upset if you touch his horns. Or if you touch him, for that matter. Even a hand on his shoulder, and he gets mad.” Quackity gestured to his shoulder. “He almost killed me for that one.”

Most of that was unhelpful. Wilbur already knew Schlatt didn’t like water, after an unfortunate circumstance when they were friends where they had been caught in a flood together. And he’d always been cagey about even high-fives, insisting on handshakes instead. But the physical weakness...that was something Wilbur could use.

“Physically weak?” he inquired further.

“Yeah. We had a Manburg Cabinet arm wrestling competition once, and even _Tubbo_ was able to beat him. He got pretty mad about that.” Quackity paused, then looked as though he had more to say, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Startled, he excused himself with a ‘one moment’ and got up to answer the door. Wilbur noticed the small wings on the man’s back shaking a little. Talking about Schlatt must have gotten him nervous. Wilbur filed that detail away in his mind, in case he would ever need it.

Wilbur craned his neck to see who was at the door, and spotted a familiar flash of yellow and red. He rolled his eyes. Of course Tommy would interrupt right as they were getting somewhere.

_TOMMYYYY. BIG T. PogChamp. INTERRUPTINNIT. TOMMY PogChamp._

Wilbur almost said ‘be quiet’ aloud, but before he could, Quackity was retreating into the room, Tommy in tow.

“Hey, Wilbur,” Tommy said. There was a certain nervousness to his voice that was almost never present. Usually Tommy was boisterous, confident. But now he sounded almost afraid. “Can we talk?”

Wilbur raised his eyebrows. He was confused, but didn’t let that show. He stood, his hands in his pockets, putting on a show. “Of course, Tommy.” And then, to Quackity, “we’ll talk later.”

Quackity nodded and ushered them out, closing the door behind them.

“What’s up?” Wilbur asked.

“Not here,” Tommy said with a glance around, starting up the stairs. Wilbur furrowed his brow, but followed his brother up and out of the ravine. What could possibly be so secretive?

_Sus. Uh oh. wtf._

Wilbur began to think too much. Maybe Tommy was a spy. He was leading Wilbur directly into a trap. All of Pogtopia was working against him, he couldn’t trust anyone, not even his own family-

And then they were out of the ravine and breathing in the warm air of the outside world. There was no Manburg army waiting to kill Wilbur. Trees blew in the soft breeze above them, and the occasional bird twittered from the branches.

Tommy turned to face Wilbur, his eyes were troubled. His mouth, usually grinning, had been twisted into some sullen expression that looked wrong on Tommy’s face.

For a moment, Wilbur was concerned. He felt like he did when they were younger, like Tommy had just had a bad day and wasn’t talking to anyone. He almost wanted to give the boy a hug, or play him a song. But then he remembered the stakes, remembered he had to be a leader, and that feeling was dashed to pieces.

“What’s wrong?” he finally settled on.

Tommy didn’t meet his eyes, instead looking around at the forest. He tapped one of his fingers incessantly on his thigh, probably unaware that he was doing so.

“Hey,” Wilbur tried for the third time. He put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and the boy finally met his gaze. “Tommy, you can tell me.”

After a moment, Tommy took a deep breath and spoke. “It’s you, Wilbur.”

Wilbur raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. Tommy had to be joking. Wilbur took the hand off his shoulder and shoved it back into his pocket. “What?”

“ _You’re_ wrong,” Tommy elaborated, a hardness appearing in his eyes. “That speech last night? You went on for, like, forty minutes about how much you _hate_ Schlatt, and how even though we’re the villains, he’s not the hero!” He folded his arms in front of him.

“What are you talking about?” Wilbur scoffed. “That was a great speech. I talked about tyranny, and victory, and...I didn’t even mention Schlatt once!”

_Yes you did. Uh oh. He’s lost it. Insanity arc. Crazy ass._

“You _did_ , Wilbur,” Tommy echoed the voices. “And even when everyone else had gone to bed, and it was just me left, you kept going! _I_ had to stop you and make you go to bed. You’re taking this too far, man.” He kicked at the ground with a dirty tennis shoe, then looked back up at Wilbur.

Wilbur studied his face. No, he was lying. The voices were lying, too. Wilbur knew Tommy heard them as well. Maybe they were working together in concert, to pull one over on Wilbur, to screw up his grand, final plan.

“You’re my brother,” Tommy spoke unexpectedly, his voice so low that Wilbur might have missed it if he hadn’t seen his lips move.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wilbur asked, more venom in his voice than he had intended. He knew he fucked up, because Tommy’s eyes widened, a spark igniting in them.

“You know damn well what it means! All you talk about is Schlatt, and revenge, and the goddamn TNT,” Tommy spat. He was getting more aggressive now, his hands clenched into fists. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you smelling like smoke all the time! It’s not gunpowder, that’s for sure, and Quackity told me you two smoke together. What’s that about, huh? What happened to ‘don’t do drugs, Tommy, you need to keep your smart brain intact’?” Tommy took a step forward, and Wilbur took one back. “What _happened_ ? I miss my _brother_!” The final words came tumbling out of his mouth like they’d been held onto for a long time, and once they were out, Tommy’s face fell. Immediate regret set into the lines in his face, a face that looked much too tired for a sixteen-year-old.

The voices fell unusually silent. For once, Wilbur hated it. He would have appreciated the advice of the things that seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

Was Tommy right? Had he gone too far?

No. No, Wilbur was right. L’manburg was theirs. He was doing this for Tommy as much as he was doing it for himself. Tommy just couldn’t see that. He was young, who could blame him!

“Tommy,” he began, slipping back into that voice of his that was smooth and convincing. It was his performance voice, the one that won hearts and minds, the one that had rallied an entire country together.

“Don’t,” Tommy muttered, stepping back and avoiding Wilbur’s eyes. “Just- just fuck off, Wilbur.”

_OH SHIT. Leave him alone. Comfort him. Crazybur. Damn. Leave._

Wilbur blinked a few times. When he saw Tommy wasn’t going to budge, he turned and fled, trenchcoat flapping in the wind, to the one place he could go.

_Why’s he gone quiet? BLOW IT UP. BLOW IT UP. He’s finally snapped. BLOW IT UP._

As soon as he stepped foot inside the small stone room, the voices grew tenfold, practically screaming at him now. He took small steps across the room, brushing his fingers along the lyrics painted on the walls.

_BLOW IT UP. Is he doing it today? BLOW IT UP. BLOW IT UP._

Oh, how he wanted to. How incredible it would be. One simple press of the button, and everything would be gone. L’manburg, Manburg, Wilbur, Schlatt. All gone and dead and never coming back.

_BLOW IT UP._

His fingertips touched the button, rested on it, feeling the texture of the wood and the grooves that he had come to know so well. Every time he was near it, he felt his heart pounding in his throat, and that adrenaline _excited_ him. The idea that with just a little force, he could destroy it all. Himself included.

But this time, that wasn’t a comforting realization. His talk with Tommy had left him unsettled and unsure, two things that Wilbur hated being. And now the voices crawled through his brain, taking up residence in every free space, worming their way into his thoughts of Tommy and Pogtopia and yelling at him.

_BLOW IT UP._

“Shut up,” Wilbur snapped. “Let me think.”

They did not let him think.

 _BLOW IT UP. BLOW IT UP. BLOW IT UP._ Only the occasional ‘no’ came through, and it was quickly smothered by the thousands of other voices screeching for the opposite.

Wilbur put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes, as if that would help anything. “Shut up,” he repeated, collapsing into the chair he had placed for himself in front of the button. He could press it. Or he could-

_BLOW IT UP, BLOW IT UP, BLOW IT UP._

“Stop, stop it, let me think,” Wilbur mumbled fruitlessly. The voices crescendoed until it was all Wilbur could hear, even louder than the beating of his own heart. They were yelling in unison now, a kind of sickening chant that made Wilbur want to bash his head in. Maybe that would stop it.

If L’manburg was his unfinished symphony, this was the chorus, and every member of the choir sang _BLOW IT UP_.

He reached forward to the button uselessly, falling short of it by just a few inches. He couldn’t even stand, too paralyzed by the screaming in his head. He was weak. Wilbur Soot was weak, and this button held all the power he had left. And he couldn’t even press it.

He slumped in the chair like some deposed king, dead on his own throne. _BLOW IT UP,_ the voices said. _I miss my brother_ , Tommy said. _I can’t do this much longer,_ Wilbur thought.

The screaming eventually contorted itself into actual notes, an orchestral arrangement that kept Wilbur’s mind racing. His eyes drifted shut, too tired to care or stand or try or _lead_ , but he didn’t sleep. He just thought, and he thought for a long time, and by the time Tommy arrived and found him in the chair, the voices had quieted to a soft hum instead of a full concert.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Consider leaving a comment telling me what you liked, as it really does help inspire me when I know what people think. Don't feel obligated to though, of course, and have a good day :]


End file.
